


Open Wound

by TrulyCertain



Series: I like big plots and I cannot lie (Kink Meme prompts) [6]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1131185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Orzammar, Natia's brave front is crumbling. Alistair is determined to ease her hurt somehow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Wound

**Author's Note:**

> This is the same Natia from [Sway](http://archiveofourown.org/works/856835), a fill I wrote what seems like years ago now. It's set in a slightly different timeline, however, where things happened much earlier.
> 
> Prompt: "I'm looking for F!Dwarf-Commoner needing to be patched up either physically or emotionally (or both) after one of the quests for aid (doesn't have to be Orzammar but it is the most obvious suggestion) and Alistair offers. However, f!Brosca is a proud lady and DOES NOT WANT."

"Nat?" Alistair tries.  
  
There's a pause as he stands outside the tent, listening for some semblance of a reply, and then he hears her say, "Leave." A second passes. "Please," she adds, as an afterthought. It's uncharacteristically quiet, so subdued that it makes him worry. She's barely said a word since they left Orzammar, and though she's only been in there five minutes at most, he knows what she's doing - hiding. Bottling up whatever she's feeling. Evening's coming, and at this rate they won't see her for the rest of the night.  
  
"If you need to talk about what happened - "  
  
"Orzammar's done. I wanna keep it that way."  
  
He considers leaving, but she's his - and he hates the way he hesitates here, the question mark he adds - friend? (One off-hand comment about finding him attractive doesn't mean true love. Besides, she can give Zevran a run for his money when she wants to. She probably flirts with everyone as a matter of course and oh, look where his mind's led him - that's really not the issue here.)  
  
"You looked pretty banged up in the Assembly Chamber. At least let Wynne take a look."  _Banged-up_  is one way of putting it. Covered in bruises, limping and having at least one gash - which is probably still open, knowing her - is another.  
  
"Doesn't matter - I'll see her later if I have to."  
  
"Natia, trust me..."  
  
"No."  
  
"'No'?" he repeats, rather surprised. "Thanks for the vote of confidence there."  
  
"I trusted Leske. Listening to that fucker nearly got Jarvia's dagger in my back. Just... leave it, alright?" That's followed by a small, glugging sound.  
  
He frowns. If he could glare at her through the damn tent, he would. "Getting drunk won't solve this."  
  
"Nothing to be solved," she mutters, cutting herself off to take another drink. "I'm fine. Doesn't matter what you think you saw."  
  
He sighs. "You're lying. And you at least need to dress your arm."  
  
"By the  _Stone_ , will you just leave me  _alone?!"_  she shouts.  
  
It echoes. He winces and looks around camp. Leliana is pretending not to shoot him sympathetic glances, and he's pretty certain Morrigan is smirking. So's Zevran, actually. This is  _just_  what he needs - as if he didn't already look like an idiot. "Can we not... can we not do this here?" he tries.  
  
"What does it take to make you humans  _sod off?_ "  
  
He's rapidly losing patience. "Those injuries need to be checked, or they'll put you out of action. And one of us, at least, has a Blight to end. If some hurlock jumps out and murders me, it'll be on your head."  
  
"Says the giant with the fuckin' shield. You can look after yourself."  
  
"That's it. You'd better be decent, because either you come out or I go in. Your choice."  
  
A grunt and then a foot emerge from the tent. The rest of Natia shortly follows. She hasn't had the chance to get herself drunk; the sharp edges are still there - her shoulders are tense and she's recovering, her eyes darting around camp to check how many have seen her outburst. She finally looks at him, her gaze defiant. "There. I'm not dead."  
  
"You still need to be patched up. If you went to Wynne..."  
  
"Nah." Natia shakes her head. "She'll give me a sermon, and I can't... nah." Green eyes meet his; they're clouded with a pain he isn't sure he understands. Maybe that's what causes him to back down.  
  
"At least let me help you. I promise I'll... I don't know, shut up and let you drown yourself in Oghren's ale. I just need to make sure you're alright."  
  
" _Why?_ " she asks, and it's all weary belligerence and sour lemons.  
  
"Because I care about you!" he snaps, too loudly. He wants to jam the words back into his mouth; he's come far too close to admitting a truth that probably shouldn't see the light of day. "You're my friend," he clarifies.  
  
She seems to consider something, and then asks, "You wouldn't have actually come into my tent, would you?"  
  
He smiles, shakes his head. "Probably not. I'm a coward at heart. Come on, I've got some medical supplies..." He's about to head back to the fire when he feels her take hold of his arm. "What - ?"  
  
"Can we do this in private? 'Specially if there's stitches. They tend to make me teary."   
  
It's a plea, but he pretends not to notice; instead he nods.  
  
"C'mon," she mumbles, leading him into the forest. Her innate sense of direction is, quite frankly, scary. If he doesn't let her have this she'll refuse to budge and this whole endeavour will be pointless. He meekly obeys.  
  
She takes them to a clearing, sitting on what appears to be a fallen tree. "Two minutes. Just treat this, and then I'm done. I already look like an idiot, letting this get to me when there's a Blight to..." She trails off, the rest a despairing mumble.  
  
He takes off his pack, sitting next to her and laying it at his feet. "Of course you're not," he insists. "Things like this - they hurt. You have a heart; that makes you a better person, not a worse one. You've just - " Best not to go down that route.  _You've just killed your best friend_  sounds far too accusatory, and these things never come out right. "Your best friend is dead."  
  
"What, Leske? Nah, I'm glad the bastard's gone."  
  
He scoffs. "You're a terrible liar."  
  
She gives him a look that would probably kill lesser men, then relaxes, nudging him with her shoulder. "My best friend's still breathing, last time I checked," she says, smiling at him.  
  
He's not an idiot, despite what Morrigan says; he knows what she means. He's weirdly touched by that - even if friendship doesn't quite seem  _enough_  anymore - but before he can think on it further, she raises whatever foul concoction Oghren's given her to her mouth, taking a swig. Where did she even hide it? She certainly sneaked it into the forest well enough. The stuff smells worryingly like armour polish. He gives her the best  _I'm disappointed in you_  look he can muster, then grabs the bottle off her.  
  
"Hey!" she protests. "Sodding cloudhead."  
  
He grins smarmily at her. "What happened to 'Oh, Alistair, my best friend's  _alive_ '?" He bats his eyelashes at her in a mockery of her own pointed look. He puts the booze down next to him and returns to their previous topic, seriousness suddenly descending on them again. "You used to talk about Leske a lot. I figured you were close."  
  
She shakes her head. "No more. Prod at my body, not my mind." Noticing the way he reddens and is suddenly awfully enthusiastic about finding the supplies in his pack, she smirks. "Yeah. I'd got you down as a virgin a month before you told me."  
  
"I bet you say that to all the boys." He finds the bandages, thread and poultices. "Tell me where it hurts."  
  
She pulls up her sleeve with a grunt, and just as he suspected, there's an angry red gash from her shoulder nearly to her elbow. That's nothing he hasn't seen before, but he's taken short by the one next to it, perfectly parallel. He's never had this, but he knew a Warden who told him about it; these wounds dsn't just hurt, they're damn near impossible to close with a needle and thread - any tugging at the skin to sew one gash closed opens the other. It's agony. He's caught between wanting to wince and fighting the urge to hit something. He suddenly  _really_  hopes he killed whoever did this to her.  
  
"Alistair?"  
  
He startles, focusing on her face.  
  
"You looked a little scary for a moment there."  
  
He attempts a smile. "Sorry. I guess Bhelen's thugs didn't count on us having a healer. I wouldn't suggest sewing  _one_  of these, never mind a case like this, unless you want some very respectable scars. Good for telling stories at the dinner table, but not much else."  
  
That seems to cheer her up. "I bet you've got a few interesting scars," she tells him, waggling her eyebrows.  
  
He coughs, struggling to concentrate on the poultice he's trying to put together. "A few," he admits, when he finds his voice again. It used to be so easy to play along when she said this kind of thing, but since he's started wondering if there's real intent behind it, it's like his mind just... stops. He can't think round her. "That said, at Ostagar" - he stops, inhales, because even after months, it's unfair how much the memories hurt - "some of the Wardens were talking about how the Ash Warriors apparently didn't have a mabari bite on them. Even from when they were training the puppies. I have no idea how they did it. That kind of discipline..."  
  
She grins, puts a hand on his arm. "You're so good at dodging rocks, swords and  _questions_." Her grin turns wolfish.  
  
His response is simply to make an overly innocent face and protest, "But you didn't ask me anything."  
  
"You're stubborner than Oghren."  
  
"From the way you were walking," he ploughs on, "it looks like the problem's your ankle. Probably a sprain."  
  
"You kinda remind me of Leske, sometimes," she says, out of nowhere. She's still, remote, her eyes miles away.  
  
He stares at her, utterly perplexed and truthfully, unsure whether or not to be offended. Being compared to a backstabbing, rather short criminal? "I'd hope I'm taller. And I don't do that" - he half-heartedly gestures to his head - "hair thing, either."  
  
"I just... you always have my back, y'know?" Her face darkens. "Mostly you're not like him at all. I don't think you've got a lying bone in your body."  
  
"Mm," he says despondently, his eyes on the ground. "Except for the whole 'sorry, my father's King Maric' thing."  
  
She's silent beside him. He wonders if she's angry with him again, but she seems more... thoughtful. "You do what you've got to do," she says eventually. "You survive that way. I used to be a cutpurse - doubt you ever did anything that bad."  
  
He knows about her history; he's known for a while. Even liking her as much as he did, said history sat uneasily with him. Then he saw Dust Town, and now he can't find it in his heart to blame her at all. He doubts that pitying her or trying to have a discussion about their respective dreadful childhoods will help matters, so he says, "Ah, my misspent youth..."  
  
She raises a questioning brow.  
  
"I took some apples from an orchard once," he admits. "And then got caught. I did actually apologise. That was my only venture into the criminal underworld, really."  
  
"When was that?"  
  
"I, ah, I was eleven."  
  
"I can imagine you at eleven. You were probably a cute kid."  
  
He nods and says, his voice sombre, "Oh yes, very cute. Apparently the sisters loved me."  
  
"'Course you  _apologised_. Stone, this is why I... um. How do you get away with being so damn  _nice?_ "  
  
His disbelief is nearly palpable. "You watched me decapitate a Carta dwarf. I stabbed a  _Chanter._ "  
  
"One was trying to slit your throat, the other was a cultist. Not like you had much choice," she replies. "And you were quick. More than I would've been." She asks, "An orchard. That's apple trees, right?"  
  
Sometimes he forgets where she's from. "Yes. There were a few near the Chantry."  
  
"There weren't many orchards where I grew up. I mean, we played. Kicked rocks, threw stuff into the lava flow. Sometimes dared each other to sneak into the Diamond Quarter. Whatever kept you out of the house. Ma wasn't exactly keen on us getting under her feet. She had drinking to do." Natia gives him a smile that's not really a smile at all - it's too broken, too bitter.  
  
He remembers the dwarf that had - well. It made his own family reunion look positively cheerful in comparison. Natia's mother might have been beautiful once, but between poverty, age and sheer bile, her face had lost any appeal it could have had. She spent most of her time berating Natia, and any flickers of motherly care were quickly swallowed by the mosswine. It was one of the most uncomfortable situations Alistair has ever been in, and Natia seemed almost to shrink, to become someone else under her mother's glare. "I'm sure she loves you," he tries, "under all that."  
  
"Maybe," Natia says. "But shit, the upside of Rica reeling in some noble is that she's not stuck in the dust with our mother. The whole caste thing, too, but I'm a surfacer. And no, don't start that. I'm fine. I don't need your sad puppy eyes." Before he can stop her, she's reached around him and is about to take another drink from the bottle. It's a horribly familiar picture, and he watches her in concern. She notices. "Don't you  _dare_. I'm not like her!" she insists. "I'm never..." Her eyes are sheened by tears that threaten to fall, and she lowers the stuff, putting it back on the ground.  
  
Looking at her breaks his heart, and he puts an arm round her shoulders. "Hey, I never said you were. It's alright. You're out of Orzammar. Look, birds! Trees! No impending death by the Carta!" When she barely reacts, he says, "Not even a smile? Guess I'm getting rusty. Maker, you'll start me off in a minute." He laughs a little, but it's hollow even to his own ears.  
  
"Sod off," she mutters without venom, settling closer to him.  
  
His laugh this time is a little more genuine. "There, that's the Natia I know."  
  
_'Specially if there's stitches. They tend to make me teary._  She was afraid of this, he realises. What, does she think he's going to judge her?  
  
"I can't go back," she tells him, her voice cracking. She's on the edge of tears.  
  
He's hugging her before he quite knows what he's doing, and she's clinging to him like she'll drown otherwise. It's awkward and he doesn't even want to think about the crick he'll have in his neck after this, but nothing in the world could make him move right now. "Glad I get to return the favour, after how much I've cried on you. I swear, at least two of your shirts must have ruined shoulders." After Ostagar, and then after Goldanna, he wasn't the best company for a while.  
  
He feels her laughter. She sniffs. "That's different," she manages. "They were your family."  
  
"It sounds like Leske was part of yours." That seems to start her off again; she's nearly silent, her breathing sputtering as she tries to hold back sobs.  
  
"It's okay," he tells her. She hesitates, still debating with herself whether to hold it in - then she cries, openly and painfully, trembling with the force of it. It hurts to watch. For a dwarf, she's never seemed made of the Stone - she's always been warm, always kind (if a little dagger-happy). When they visited Orzammar, he was shocked at how little happiness was waiting for her, how much the trip hurt her. But she's never seemed so vulnerable, and he has no idea what to do in the face of her pain. He strokes her hair, keeps his arms round her - all the while cursing how ineffectual he's being - and waits. He's wanted to hold her for a long time, but not like this - not watching her heart break and being helpless to do anything about it.  
  
"I've... I've got nothing," she manages. "Rica's with Bhelen, and Mom..." She exhales shakily - it's more of a gasp; she's still fighting to stay in control - and says, "Stone. Ignore me. I... I just..."  
  
He withdraws, cupping her face in his hands and telling her, "Rica loves you. Your mother loves you." He gently attempts to wipe away her tears. "And you have plenty on the surface, believe me."  
  
"Alistair..." She stares at him, the tears welling in her eyes again, and then glances at the ground. She exhales, visibly slumping, and says, “Dammit, you’re just so _bright_."   
  
“I... what?” He raises an eyebrow, unable to hide his confusion.  
  
“It’s just...” She looks glumly at her knees; she can’t seem to meet his eye. “Everything up here’s too bright. All the time. And then there’s you.” She glares at him, and he wonders vaguely what he’s done now. “Because you... you’re the worst of all, because sometimes I look at you and I can’t.”  
  
“I don't understand.” That sentence made absolutely no sense, and he’s still trying to parse it.  
  
Her eyes meet his; she looks up at him, and there’s something searching, a painful kind of melancholy in it. “You’re... you’re like the sun. Sometimes it’s blinding, and you’re just too fucking lovely and I can’t... I can’t  _breathe_  right when I see you, and it hurts.”   
  
He stares at her, wide-eyed, because surely she can't mean what he thinks she means... "Natia?"  
  
Her voice is a murmur, her eyes on his mouth. "Sometimes I just want to..." She stands, and for a moment he's certain she's going to leave him here. Then she leans in, and she's... she's kissing him.   
  
Wait, what? He's clumsy in his surprise and inexperience, unsure where to put his hands. Half of him is still unable to believe this is actually happening; he's kissing  _Natia._  Natia, his best friend and the most beautiful woman he's ever seen; she wants him, and so he has to be dreaming. The other half of him isn't thinking, reason having gone out of the window and been replaced by feeling. Her lips are soft and warm. He finds himself deepening the kiss and pulling her closer, needing to know more of her, his fingers in her hair; this is so much better than he imagined, and is that her tongue because that's so -   
  
And then he remembers, and his heart sinks. She feels his hesitation, and when he pulls back, away from her, she looks at him in concern. "Something wrong?" And this was the last thing he expected when he was standing outside her tent being yelled at - Natia here, now, watching him half-hopefully, her cheeks reddened and her hair tousled.   
  
By  _him._  He suddenly feels hopelessly clumsy, trying to understand what in the Maker's name he's just done. "Wow." His voice isn't entirely steady. He clears his throat. "You really ought to see Wynne. Your arm won't heal itself. I can probably do something with the ankle, but..."  
  
She stares him down, but there's hurt behind the stubbornness. "Don't give me that. What is it? I get it if you want to let me down gently. I'm sorry and all; I really did think you were interested, but - "  
  
"No," he reassures her, taking hold of her hands. "It's not that. Believe me, I really do want... Very much. It's just that you've had a shock, and you're not... I'd rather do this when we're both thinking straight."  
  
"Such a sodding knight." She rolls her eyes. "I've wanted to do that since Lothering, and besides, you wouldn't even let me get drunk. Just 'cos it was tonight..."  
  
"That's not what I mean." When she opens her mouth to protest, he counters, "I did stupid things after Ostagar. There's plenty of time to talk about this. Just... sleep on it." He looks stubbornly back at her, until he's hit by the rest of what she said. "Lothering? That was months ago. I was a mess."  
  
"You were still you. Besides, that pain looked like it was a little heavy for you to carry on your own."  
  
He gapes at her, and eventually says, "I never really thought you'd..."  
  
She rolls her eyes, unsurprised. "You've got the confidence of a nug on the chopping block."  
  
He shifts uncomfortably, unable to contradict her, and says, "You should still go to Wynne. Magic will heal your wounds much faster than I can."  
  
She sighs. "I told you, I don't need to."  
  
"And I told you, you  _do._  Can we not get into an argument right after - " She smirks at him. "Stop that."  
  
"I'm fine," she insists.  
  
"You're in pain and you're grieving. You're  _not_  fine, and why are you so afraid to admit it?"  
  
He's hit a nerve; it's obvious from the way her mouth clamps shut, and she has no reply. "Alright," she says, the word so curt it's a slap in the face. She adds, seemingly to her feet, "Come with me."  
  
"I'm pretty sure your ankles can't hear you," he comments.  
  
She meets his gaze, if only to give him a venomous look, and then relents. "I look like a mess."  
  
"Really? Because I see a gorgeous woman. One who just gave me a very pleasant surprise." He beams at her.  
  
That draws a reluctant smile from her. "Stop being so... you," she says, and then, "Looks like I'm taller than you, for once." She offers her hand.   
  
He takes it, standing and packing away the supplies. "Mm. Seeing as I'm a... What was it, giant?"  
  
She coughs. "Sorry about that."  
  
He laughs. Coming to stand next to her, he tells her, "Don't worry about it. And if Wynne tries to give you a sermon, I'll distract her. Maybe try and put another sock in her tent. Whatever'll let you make a clean getaway." He begins to follow Natia back to camp; with her limp and his comparatively long legs, he has to slow down to keep pace with her. "She has good intentions, you know. She really does care about you."  
  
"Heh. Yeah, sure. She just likes you."  
  
"You know full well that isn't true." Silence falls as they come out of the forest, and he wonders how best to broach the subject. "Natia?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Next time, please just remember I'm around, if you need to talk. About anything, honestly."   
  
They reach Wynne, and the mage looks up expectantly. "Do you need a healer?" she asks.  
  
Natia nods. "Think I do, actually."  
  
"At last," Wynne sighs. "Come along, dear."  
  
It's progress, Alistair thinks as he waits with Natia. Wynne is doing her best to close the gashes. Frustrated and illuminated by healing magic, she looks older than ever, but eventually she does... something, something that makes the back of his neck prickle and the Veil  _change_  and the wounds are gone. Natia breathes a sigh of relief, preparing to head away from the mage, but Wynne just pointedly says, "Now, let's take a look at that ankle."  
  
Natia glares at him while saying to Wynne, "He told you, didn't he?"  
  
"Indeed he did." Wynne's response is perfectly calm, if a bit preoccupied.  
  
Alistair just shrugs, giving Natia a sheepish grin. "I thought she knew?" The glare continues. "Everyone in camp knew, Nat. You weren't exactly hiding it well."  
  
The glare only fades as Natia takes off her boot. Alistair winces. Natia is quiet, letting Wynne work on the sprain, until Wynne has to manipulate the ankle to check how much damage there is. Natia grits her teeth and lets out a loud, "Fucking  _fuck!_ " She looks at him in embarrassment. "I mean, uh... damn."  
  
His lips twitch. "Are you okay there?"  
  
"Yeah," Natia mumbles. "Shut up."  
  
Wynne raises her eyebrows, but keeps working, and after a fair light show, the swelling and the bruising have disappeared. "Try putting your weight on it. Hopefully it shouldn't pain you any longer." When Natia does, Wynne adds, "I'm not even going to mention what you two have been doing in the forest."  
  
Alistair takes in Natia's still-ruffled hair and the renewed blush on her cheeks, knows that he must be looking near the same, and replies, "It's really not what you think." At Wynne's sceptical look, he adds, "Really. I was just trying to patch her up." Damn. The whole camp must be speculating right about now.  
  
Wynne's eyes fall to Natia's ankle, checking for any remaining sign of injury. "Hm. Keep digging. I'm sure you'll persuade me eventually."  
  
"Cruel woman," he mutters.  
  
Wynne is far more amused than offended. Turning to Natia, she says, "Is that all?"  
  
Natia nods. "Thanks," she manages.  
  
"Better?" Alistair asks.  
  
Natia sighs, "Pretty much. Just... next time, let me wallow, alright?"  
  
"If you think I would, you obviously don't know me that well."  
  
"Guess not," she says, making her way to her tent. As she walks past him, she adds under her breath, "Didn't think Chantry boys kissed like  _that_ , either."  
  
He feels himself turn scarlet.  
  
"Is she feeling any better?" Wynne asks. "She seemed... upset, after Orzammar."  
  
He watches Natia walk across camp and duck into her tent. "I don't know," he says. "She's still fragile. If she knew I'd told you that, she'd probably murder me, but she's obviously hurting. I just... I don't know what to do."  
  
"Be there for her," Wynne responds simply. "Don't push her too hard. She seems like a private person, but she obviously trusts you."   
  
"I hope so." His mind returns to the kiss, and he prays it wasn't her grief acting for her.

* * *

The next morning, he's sitting browsing  _A History of Ferelden_ , volume five, when he hears Natia get up. He swallows, pretending not to listen to the rustling and the sound of her exiting her tent, only looking up when she drops to the ground next to him. He notices the space she's left between them, an arm's length at least, and dreads what's coming next.  
  
"So," she says.  
  
"So," he returns cautiously.  
  
"Uh, about last night."   
  
He absentmindedly touches his mouth, and by the way she pauses knows she's noticed. Damn.  
  
"I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to..." She trails off. "Fuck. I basically cried all over you. And then jumped you. And you were right, I wasn't thinking straight."  
  
He pretends that it doesn't hurt to hear, that he can look at her without feeling like someone's torn out his heart and stamped on it. "Right. I was a fool to... I'm sorry. You were in a bad place, and I took advantage of that."  
  
" _What?_ " Her sudden outburst makes him stare at her, and she says, "You didn't... you didn't take advantage of anyone, you were too polite to let me down easy."  
  
_I've wanted to do that since Lothering,_  he remembers her saying. It wasn't a split-second, foolish decision.   
  
"Let you down easy? Why would I do that? I wanted to kiss you. If  _that_  was just politeness, I have to wonder how you all greet each other in Orzammar."  
  
She finally seems to understand. "You're interested?"  
  
"I told you I was." He lets out a harsh, bemused laugh. "Why would you think I didn't want you?"  
  
She looks at him in surprise - the first time she's actually, truly looked at him since this conversation began - and he uses the opportunity to tuck her hair behind her ear and draw closer to her, his intent clear. "I've wanted to do this since, oh, Maker knows," he tells her, and then he kisses her. He hears a whistle - Oghren's, probably - and ignores it; he feels her move, and knows she's making a gesture that's probably impressively rude. He can't help his huff of laughter, but he and Natia manage to carry on perfectly well regardless.  
  
When they finally part, Natia smiles at him like he's just given her the stars. "Better?" she asks, still a little breathless.  
  
"Much."  
  
"Thank you, by the way. Last night helped me more than I thought it would."  
  
"Don't mention it. If you ever need someone to cry all over, as you so charmingly put it - "  
  
"You're here." She takes his hand. "I know. Now get down here again, we need to make up for lost time."  
  
He laughs, and does. There's nowhere else he'd rather be.


End file.
